August 02, 2007
Intern George Adam's Apple Watch
Beloved Intern George,
I'm not really fugging you. I promise we're not mad at you. We could NEVER be mad at you, unless, I suppose, we found out you'd been eating babies in your spare time, but I'm confident that won't turn out to be the case, because a) you are only a cannibal in the sense that you devour our inner demons and spit them back out as sunshine and rainbows, and b) you don't seem to be eating that much of anything these days, frankly.
The British press is concerned. Readers are worried. And while we know it's not exactly fair to compare you in the throes of Oscar weight-gain to you now several years later, it can't be denied that your neck cords are looking unusually pronounced lately. We could pluck those and play beautiful music. [Which, by the way, maybe we should do when you get back from your summer vacation, just because we haven't done that yet and we know how much you love how ticklish you are.]
Mostly, we're just writing to make sure you take care of yourself when you aren't under our watchful eyes. Remember all the things we taught you about pasta? And sandwiches? And pasta sandwiches? It's like the New World natives told those pesky, lanky Brits when they landed: "A carbohydrate plate a day keeps the Adam's apple at bay." Seeing you like this makes me feel like we sent you off to boarding school without any lunch money, and you're reduced to eating table scraps and whatever you can bargain for from the other students in exchange for staying up all night and finishing their essays on "Nebuchadnezzar: Tyrant or Titan?".
Hugs and love,